Uzo sat at the hospital window, looking lost, eyes hollow, looking at nothing. His spirit lost with time, the emptiness ran deep into this vein. Tears streamed down his face, but his lips were tight as if they were sealed. He remembers that fateful evening. His mom prepared jollof rice and packed it for their family get-together on the outskirts of the city. She was humming a melody that he couldn't forget. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it starts raining. He remembers the soft drizzle tapping on the window, his father cracking jokes, and his laughter filling the whole car. I was busy playing games with my phone. Out of nowhere a car came out of a T junction; there was a screeching of tires, and everything went blurry. When I woke up, the world was too quiet. The white ceiling above me wasn’t home. My arm hurt. My chest hurt. But the silence hurt most. That’s when I learned my parents were gone.
Only to wake up to a quiet world, I looked at the ceiling, but it wasn't home. My head hurts badly, my chest is no better, and it feels as if a heavy iron was placed on my arm and leg. But the silence and the sorry eyes staring at me weren't those of my parents; that's when I learned that my parents were gone. I couldn't believe they must be lying to me, so I didn't cry. I refused to talk to anybody. Furthermore, I was always looking out of the window for any sign of my parents coming to get me and telling me it was a prank. But as days pass, reality sets in.
One bright morning while I was thinking of how to join my parents because I can't stay in this world alone. My door opened, and a man limping on one leg with the support of a wooden stick walked in. He was the carbon copy of my father; he wore a face more sad than mine. When I raised my face, it was my favorite uncle. For the first time since I found out my parents died, I wept loudly and openly, hugging my uncle.
He said, “Hello, champ,” hugging me tight. “You remember me, your Uncle Kingsley. You are no longer alone. I nodded my head. There was something in his voice that was gentle and reassuring, which broke the surrounding fog. I knew from that moment I wasn't alone anymore.
Uncle Kingsley's house sat at the edge of a quiet village, where green hills kissed the sky and the cricket sang at night. The first scent I perceived was that of sawdust and pine. My uncle was a carpenter, and every corner of his house told a story: the chairs with smooth edges, a tiny carved animal, and a wooden carved clock that ticked like a heartbeat. He moved slowly, dragging his left leg with each step, but never with shame. When I asked him once why he walked that way, he just smiled and said, “Every limp has its story. I’ll tell you mine when you’re ready.”
My uncle always dragged his leg when he was not walking with his stick; there was no form of self-pity on his face. I once asked him what happened to his leg, but he responded, Every limp has a story. He was going to tell me when I'm ready. Well, I grew up with him, watching him build the beauty of broken wood.
He will teach me how to plane a board, hammer straight, and sand gently. I can never forget his favorite slogan: “You can fix anything only if you are patient.” I used to think it was just because he was teaching me carpentry, but he was actually teaching me how to live. One afternoon when I turned 12, we both climbed a hill behind his house to fly a kite. Although the wind was playful, tugging, I ran, laughing and jumping, my tiny feet barely touching the grass until they slipped, my world tilted, and suddenly I felt my spirit leaving my soul. Then I heard my name, “Uzo,” my uncle shouted, and a hand grabbed me strong and desperate. He yanked me backward just in time before I fell off the edge, but he fell instead. He was clutching his leg; the pain on his face made me cry harder than my falling would have.
Later that day, as we sat by the fire, I asked him why his legs hurt so much.
He just grinned and told me, Because I will never stop saving you.
I was confused and asked him what he meant.
He looked at me for a long time and shook his head. “The day of the accident I was driving gently behind your parents car when you collided with another car and fled to a cliff. I ran without thinking to save you and your parents, but I have only saved you. When my leg got stuck in an iron, I had to give you to the people who came to help to rush you to the hospital first. In the process of trying to bring my leg out of the iron, I sustain a deep wound that affects my leg to date,
Why didn't you come to the hospital early? I asked.
Yes, I fell into a coma because I lost a lot of blood. I stared at his leg, then his face; something in me shifted, and my chest felt tight. You got hurt because of me, and then again this morning.
He ruffled my hair. “And I’d do it again. You’re worth more than a leg, Uzo.”
From that day my uncle became my hero, and I promise to make him proud.
Images are ai generated.
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What a comfort it must have been for the narrator to learn that he still had his uncle after the departure of his parents. And he must also have been filled with gratitude to learn that it was in the bid of saving him that the uncle lost a limb. There is no doubt he would do a fine job filling the vacuum left by his parents even if he didn't do it one hundred percent. No one can.
Yes, when you thought that all hope is gone, you know that feeling to feel hope alive